


The Lemon Tree

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Broke Bucky Barnes, Broke Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Depressed Steve Rogers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tired Steve Rogers, smart bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23475427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: See, James was a good person; he never suffered through any existential questions of his morality until today. He didn't want to rob anyone, but with George Barnes' loving nature and strong hands buried six feet under ground, money was a problem. It already destroyed his future, now he wouldn't let it even touch Beccas. So, after much debate and cautious thinking, James has landed himself in an overgrown, yet charming (in theory) house. What he doesn't expect is to save the life of a small fragile boy trying to end his life in a bathtub.Tired Steve Rogers remembers the days he used to paint, he remembers the days his mom would sway into the kitchen singing Frank Sinatra, he remembers the days where he wasn't on a constant edge of tiredness and self-hate, and he remembers the days he could walk through his own backyard.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Kudos: 6





	The Lemon Tree

Yellow sun glistens through the broken window screen and hits the head of a soft blond gleam; they match: together, uniform, and yellow. The boy whose head barely reaches the height of the window, glares at the yellow. It’s outside. Outside, where young boys and young girls circle around basking in the gleam of yellow, breathing in the gleam of yellow. It’s fresh and lively and most importantly it’s real. It’s real, unlike the yellow matching his hair, and the yellow bouncing through the window. There’s a light decay inside, with the boy’s deteriorating skin matching his artificial sun. Groaning, he stretches his lithe body off of the couch and heads to hollowed out gleam, closes the blinds, and the yellow dies. It’s symbolic, he muses. Dragging his brittle bones across the hardened floor, he can sit on the couch in darkness where the yellow doesn’t match his hair. It’s quite determinedly a stark contrast between the dark of the room and the yellow of his hair, but unlike the yellow whose soft woven light cascaded into the dead interior of the room: it’s inside, and real. He could reach his hand into the dark, and he could follow the bearable nothingness inside through the hot air. The air was unbearably hot, hot from the lack of wind, and the lack of money. Money, a morally questionable friend that supported him once and burdened him twice, and now it’s absent presence baked his skin.  
Putting his arm down onto the concave twist of his chest, he closed his eyes. Once upon a time, when Sarah was alive, he was reminded daily that he had nice eyes, beautiful eyes. Eyes, big and bold, with blue that rivaled the sky and water, that were gifted from his late father. Apparently, there was a spitting resemblance between him and his father, perhaps not in strength or health, but in character, and of course, eyes.  
Tired, but impossibly awake, from both heat and a deep chill, he sat back up. By now, the yellow had left and crawled back to another window. He stared across the darkened corridors of the room, and groaned. Loud and dry. It was fucking hot. He coughed, brittle and parched, and lazily flickered on the light. The harsh light clamored and stabbed his strained eyes as he scurried to his dining table and looked grimly ahead. His dining table was a mess. When Steve was younger, if this site caught eyes to his mother, there would be a fate much worse than the annoying sun sneaking into his room during the day; however, Sarah’s strict love for cleanliness couldn’t impose itself onto him when she was dead. Pushing empty and half-filled mugs, paper-plates, and charcoal pencils across the table, Steve nestled a small space for himself, reached for the sketchbook on his right, and began to draw. Originally, before he graduated college, he’d be painting instead: large, overly-priced canvas’ with his years and years of collected paints and worn-down brushes, but now in the dim of his room he sketched. Indeed, he loved sketching, but the satisfying stroke of paint on his brush was a yearningly lost pleasure. After Steve no longer registered the scratch of his pencils, and his mother’s face twisted into a dark scowl from the wobbly motions of Steve’s wrist, his eyes, heavy and sullen with fatigue, closed, luring him to the promise of sleep. 

Money was a constant theme, or rather the lack of it. He was a smart young man, dapper and savvy, whose knowledge effortlessly carried him to success and growth. But at the ripe edge of maturity and youth, his intelligence could only get him so far. Far enough for school, but not quite far enough to handle the death of his father. His mother, young and old, lived strongly independent, but the unfavorable pressure of greed and corruption led to a balanced income household, so when tender and sturdy George Barnes died, so did James’ future. He left; dropped his future, dropped his success and cradled his mother and young sister in his arms where his father couldn’t. James has always been a happy boy, he still is, but sometimes when he sits in the depth of his room, he remembers how smart he is, how dedicated he is, how he lost the one constant in his life other than his family. Sometimes, he misses the voice of his father as much as his lost education, and guilts himself for the selfishness of his thoughts. Rebecca, his sister, is young, old enough to miss her father, but young enough to live without a constant loom of sorrow, and she studies too; she looks to where her brother works and works and works, and to where her mother works and works and works, and she studies because what James couldn't have, is what she can. James reminds her of this, not in words, but in actions, and he prides his sister’s intelligence just like himself. However, both the combined forces of James and his mother barely escape the dreads of capitalism, and it pushes James to an unbearable edge of anger and pity, where the loom of his sister’s success and their houses’ mortgage paves his way towards a fight of injustice. Personal injustice. 

When Steve woke up from his sketch-induced sleep, it quickly prompted a throbbing pain through the crick in his neck to the pivots in his back. Tired, he was always tired. Upset, he was always upset. Thinking about it, he concluded that it was bound for him to get fired anyway. In fact, it wasn’t the first time; Steve lived off his late mother’s money, and his renewed monthly job where his sullen lack-luster attitude contributed to his lack of appreciated customer-service, work ethic, and anything involving effort really. Although his back hurt and he was jobless, Steve awoke with a smile, because today was Thursday, and he planned today’s agenda with care and appreciation and relief. Antagonizing relief. Today was, as he liked to dramatically exclaim, his “Last Day on This Godforsaken Planet.” Actually, with his artistic license and talent, he quite beautifully wrote it in his planner. At ten-thirty, he’d be having coffee and breakfast with Sam. At twelve, he’d reread Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None, at two he’d draw, maybe a portrait of his mother or Sam or Sam and his mother. At four, he’d take a nap. At six, he’d dress himself up, and lastly as seven he wouldn’t have to close the blinds anymore. 

Steve’s giddiness breezed over his lack of preparation. Today went as planned, almost better. His time with Sam was joyful and humorous, and Steve laughed so hard he cried; it was easy. It never was easy. Now as Steve looked in his closet, he began to contemplate where his schedule for dressing up came from: he had no fucking clothes. The nicest suit he owned was from his mother’s funeral, and Steve couldn’t bear the thought of even looking at it. It was morbid and disgusting, and she’d be so disappointed in him. Frustrated, he slammed his sliding doors shut just to watch it unhinge and break. Funny, he thought. There was really nothing as sophisticated or formal as he imagined he’d wear, and that was without a doubt extremely annoying. And rude. Steve crammed his hands through his stringy hair and yawned, he was tired. Still. It wasn’t too bad, he could wear what he was wearing now, it wasn’t bad. Sam always claimed he dressed like a stereotypical hipster who took advantage of the gentrified lands of Brooklyn, and Steve would scowl prompting Sam to say, “ Well, not quite, you still can’t grow a beard.” Annoyingly so, he couldn’t. Well, a nice one at least. Steve looked up into his bathroom mirror, surprised to find that his pondering brought upon fragile tears nestling in the corners of his eyes. His blue eyes. Sniffling, he took his hand, his dainty hand, and brushed them away. In the corner of his bathroom cupboard, Steve organized all his medications, they were all out, of course, except his sleeping pills. Ironic to the nature of the rest of his house, Steve actually had a well-off bathroom, it even came with a tub. A clean tub, because even though the rest of his house was heaveled in dirty laundry and paper-plates, he had fucking taste and refused to die in dust and dead insects. Twisting the bottle cap, once, then twice, then goddamnit, three times, Steve finally managed to open it, thinking that his years of opening pill bottles would’ve taught him something, and plopped the remaining four in his mouth. Now, the nice thing about being depressed, broke, and unmotivated to do anything, was that even though it was well into the 90’s outside, and he had no air-conditioning at least he didn’t have to worry about taking a cold shower. Steve’s water cooler had been broken for about three months, so everything he did, was with warm or really fucking hot water. It was nice in the sense that Steve, like any civilized human being, enjoyed hot showers. In this case however, baths. Filling the tube, Steve slinked in. It was nice, warm, and relaxing, and man, he was tired. Mind clouded with fatigue, he slumped against the tub’s side and relaxed. Minutes passing, and Steve’s eyes struggled to stay open, he blinked tiredly and sighed looking across at the man in front of him. Wait. What the fuck. Mind plagued with drowsiness, Steve merely managed a small and confused frown, maybe this was an angel, he was clearly handsome, from what his blurred eyes could figure, and he was touching Steve, dragging him into his arms, out of the tub. It was nice to be touched, it’d been so long since Steve was hugged, and cherished, and loved, and touched. His mother gave exceptionally great hugs, and Steve mused that thought from an unbiased opinion. With little muscle, Steve gently swayed his head upward, looking at his angel, he could see the clear lines of stress on his beautiful, beautiful face and lazily pressed a small kiss onto his brow. There, that would do, so satisfied by his actions, he barely cared to see the angel’s reactions, and happily slumped into his arms, passing out. 

Now James considered himself a man of great morale, he always voted, called out racists and sexists, punched Brock Rumlow at a Frat party ( which was doing god’ s work honestly) and he gave up his life-long dream to support his family, so really, he was a good fucking person. He was raised by his mother and father, so of course, he was thoughtful and good. He swore it, except, he doubted his father would approve of him now. See, it was last Saturday where his mother had cried in his arms about this month’s bills and apparently Rebecca caught site because later that night he caught her slipping all the money from her piggy-bank into his wallet. “ Bucky, Bucky, I-I swear I wasn’t doing anything, I-” “Becca, I swear to god, I love you, but I’m not taking your money,” by then she was crying, ugly tears, slipping onto her cheeks unchecked like James when he dropped out of college, or when his elementary school girlfriend of three weeks, Natasha Romanova, broke up with him. Beck wailed, “ I heard you and mom, I-I heard y-you, so don’tcha go o-on fucking lying to me B-b-” except her sentence was unfinished through her dry-heave crying, and James, a true crybaby also, starting hastily whipping away his tears. “ Becky, Beck, baby, I’m sorry, but it’s okay, mom and I, we can handle the bills, we’re good, we’re safe, okay? Becca, I love you, it’s not your job to worry about that kinda shit, you’re supposed to be worrying about f-fucking,if John thinks your cute or whatever, just please, it’s okay, it’s okay.” While then, they both knew that it was a malnourished lie, but James, ever persistent, was going to get extra cash one way or another. It was a week of hard thinking that brought him to the nice side of Brooklyn, James really didn’t want to rob anyone, but he reasoned a well-off individual would be fine, they’d hardly miss a piece of their hoarded diamond earrings, and at this point, James think he’d orgasm at the site of a five dollar bill. It was the point where he’d gotten to the beautiful house’s side window, that he realized, he was a fucking coward. And finally, the anxiety settled in. James panicked and started crying, what the fuck was he doing? How, how did he get here? He was a good person, his mother, his father did not raise a thief! No way, no way. Stressed and scared, James began to run.  
In eighth grade, James joined track, he did it because Thor Odinson, sophomore, god of a man really, was in track, and football, and James was pretty sure also basketball, and most importantly: openly gay. James was already in the school’s baseball team at that point, so he didn’t want to leverage another highly competitive sport; his excuse, in actuality, James had a personal hatred towards football for untold reasons, and had at least three exes in the school’s co-ed basketball team. Most notably though, James did excel in track, he became a top runner, even taking it again in college. However, James personal Woo Human God Thor became lost, as he ended up loving the freedom and peace of running more than his sought expedition plus he also saw Thor kissing it up with ultra nerd Bruce Banner. And huh? Who knew? So, yeah, James was an excellent, fast, and focused runner which even in his years of running. James was still startled to find himself in middle of Fuck Town Brooklyn. Okay, kind of rude of him, but these houses were almost equally as shitty as his, and that said a lot. Looking further down, James noticed a nice house, it wasn't big per se, but it was well-off in terms of architecture. Vines slithered up and down the walls of the house, and overgrown trees and bushes covered its yard, closely scattered along the house's driveway were bundles of orange and yellow flower buds from the unplucked weeds. James was all about biodiversity, but yesh. Admiring the house, it was pricey, it must have been relatively so, if the unkept yard didn't scream raggedness and decay, this house would be quite pretty. James made up his mind, the person who owned this house was not poor, but not rich enough to not worry about taxes, so kind of like James’ family before his dad died. They’d be fine, the person, people, whatever of the house would not drown in debt if James took a few items, they might not even notice. Well, that might be a stretch. Breathing in, James looked cautiously at the house again, it looked pretty deserted, thinking about it, it had to be a nice-off old man conservative that probably didn’t believe in global warming, and also was so old he physically couldn’t pluck his weeds. James would be fine, he’d be doing the world a favor, this man probably yelled slurs as a pastime activity. Or maybe not. Maybe, he was just a sweet cute old man that sold peaches and told stories of how much he loved and missed his sixty-three grandchildren, in that case James could out run him, or maybe make a friend. No, no, no this is bad, but so is debt. So is Becky feeling so bad, she gives James all her money; he had to do this, it was the only way.  
Amusingly and perhaps out of place, James felt like Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones exploring the depths of a jungle for hidden treasure as he pushed the tree's lengthy branches from his face. It was a little similar, he was doing relatively not legal things to get valuable goods, and yes, jungle. Finally, to the front door, James knocked and waited, he would’ve rang the doorbell if there was one. Waiting, James rubbed his hand over his face to reveal a layer of sweat, realizing that it was actually quite hot outside, especially when you’ve been running for god knows how long. At this point, James didn’t even care if he could rob the house or not, he was hot, and he wanted water. And a nap. After a couple minutes of no answer James made up his mind, and scurried to the back of the house. Like the front of the house, the backyard was just as treacherous, James hopped over the weeds, and twigs making his way to the outdoor patio. Weirdly, there was one well-kept plant: in a large vase, there was a petitely sized tree with an abundant amount of scattered white flowers. It looked like a lemon tree he mused. It was pretty and a stark contrast to the rest of the house, enamored by the tree, he came up and softly cradled one of its leaves; it felt personal and he felt guilty.  
Upon entering the house, James looked around, and oh god, oh man, it was disgusting. He might have been dramatic, but the first connection James made was Hoarding: Buried Alive. Okay, he was definitely being dramatic, but in his defense, the house was not well; it was sad, the house, it had so much beauty, it was rustic and sleek in a charming manner, and it oozed potential. James was no artist, but he wasn’t a fucking heathen. Now that he had a second to think, James noticed that it was still hot inside, unendurably hot, almost worse than outdoors. The owner of the house obviously was aware, James concluded from the several electrical fans plugged in. Impatiently, he ran to the front of the fan and basked in the cool air as it wafted through his hair. Times like this made him think about cutting his hair, except wait. When were there times like this? Hunching his shoulders, James sat for a minute, took a deep breath, then stood up. He walked to the cupboard, pulled out a white floral china cup, and poured himself some water from the sink. Slamming the water, he sighed, “ Right, rob time,” and looked around the house. Shiny objects that caught his eye made it into his backpack, mostly random, he didn’t even know if they were worth a lot. At one point, James caught sight of an endearingly handsome ceramic frog, and for once, robbed out of pure selfishness. Scurrying through cupboards and drawers, James frantically began to search for anything. “Not even a five dollar bill,” he muttered, swaying to the dining table, James blinked at the site of an opened sketchbook. Like the tree, it was personal, but his morals were already shattered, so he reasoned it wouldn’t hurt. Admiring the page, James was struck by a bolt of despair. This piece, it was a sketch of a woman, older but nonetheless beautiful, made him hurt. Her eyes, her eyes were desolate and bulging with grief and sorrow, and her lips twisted tightly into a brittle smile; it was eerie and cold, it made him think of his father and James knew this woman was dead. If the guilt didn't engulf him before, it engulfed him now; painfully and scarily, as he felt a throbbing scratch of glistening shame trickle down his spine. Hastily, James closed the sketchbook, and retreated a few steps backwards, he sat down and pulled out the items from his backpack, putting the shiny pieces to where he found them, in the middle of doing so, he was hit with a terribly placed urge to pee. It was bad, really bad and most likely stupid, but today wasn’t his top tier of thinking straight. Glancing towards the hallway corridor, he began in search of a bathroom. At the very end of the house, James made it into a master bathroom, and hurriedly searched for the bathroom door. Finally, he breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door. Unlike the rest of the house, the bathroom was really nice, not just in an upscale modernized fashion, but in a ‘wow it’s actually clean’ fashion. Looking for the toilet, he noticed a peak of fair blond hair. It was shiny and bright, and like the frog James kind of wanted it. Looking closer, James turned the corner to discover that the blond emerged from the head of a small boy, body submerged in a bathtub. “ Oh, no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no,” James muttered, the boy was wake, barely, and by the drowsiness and confusion laced in his face along with the empty bottle of sleeping pills, James reasoned he didn’t want to be for any longer. Immediately, his heart began to thump. Loud and hard and constant as he panicked and grabbed the boy’s lithe body into his arms, dragging him out of the tub. He was sleeping, he was putting himself to sleep, he was going to sleep and drown, and drown, and drown and die. There was a constant loop of jumbled panic in his head as he got the boy out of the tub. He was conscious, and looking at James in a confused awe, startled as the boy brought his head lazily to James’ face and placed a sweet and gentle kiss above his brow. What the hell? Is he delirious, did he overdose? What does he do, call 911, go to jail for theft, does he put his hands in the back of the boy’s small throat and make him throw up. James might just throw up. This is bad, really bad.

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys!!!! so this is my first fic ever!!! woo, big deal , I know, now where's my trophy??? anyway, as I was writing a short passage critiquing our evil govt the other day, I realized man, I actually do kinda like to write. soo, here u go lovelies. im tired and decided to write this while I was procrastinated already procrastinated homework, I swear its an endless cycle, help me. also this story is a little depressing!!! but, ill have a good ending I promise!!!! anyway, right now is a crazy time, and I hope yall are being smart and staying home rn,,, okay stay safe ur beautiful and must have good taste if ur reading this badboy actually if u like it pls gimme love n comments bc I have no self esteem. okay!!! stay safe!!! comment whacha think-- I basically got inspired from that one movie where the guy robs the girl trying to kil herself and they fall in love soooo,, i mean i never saw it but the point still stands. also if ur triggered by suicidal thoughts, tendencies, actions, intent, depression, or loss of a loved one, please don't read or be careful!!!!


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